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Nale feels good. Not great. Not wonderful. But better — a shadow lifted from him for the first time in centuries. Then something terrible happens again: his stomach churns, a force tries to turn him inside out, and beside him Ishar stares at the sky and reads what has been done. *The Stormfather is dead. Dalinar Kholin has failed. Honor is being consumed. Retribution — his name is Retribution — will consume and destroy the spren next, then remake them to his will. Cultivation flees.* They, like the spren, bear a piece of Honor in them. He will want it back. *This is our end,* Ishar says. *No Stormlight. No highstorm. The enemy has won.*

*Perhaps,* the Wind whispers, trembling. *But there is still a service you could perform.* A ring of ten, in their strength, could bind Retribution in some small way — could it not? *Yes,* Ishar breathes. As their Connection to Odium had once let them bind him, their Connection to Honor could now let them seal away a piece of the new god from himself. *We must reforge the circle.* Nale trembles. He remembers being held against stones, soul burned and flayed, the screams of his friends in his ears for centuries. *I can't go back, Ishar. I'm not strong enough.* What if, the Wind asks gently, your minds could go somewhere else? She had had a great deal of time to think. Ishar sees what she shows him: while their souls returned to Braize, their minds could be placed inside a constructed vision — peace, perhaps, instead of torture. He helps Nale place each Honorblade in the ring, all but Jezrien's.

*Stormblessed lives,* Nale reports, *but he needs Regrowth.* No Stormlight. Szeth is in worse shape — arm gone to the shoulder, skin scored and blackened — and unconscious; he cannot speak the Words. To the east, darkness grows in the sky like a bruise. *You said no more storms.* *I said no more highstorm,* Ishar whispers. *Now there is another. The Night of Sorrows has come, Nale. The True Desolation is here.* *Why fight? Honor is dead.* *Yes,* a quiet voice says behind them, *Honor is dead.* Both Heralds turn to see Kaladin pushing himself up to sit, hair disheveled, blue uniform rumpled, dirt on his face. He looks at what is left of his right hand and grimaces. Then he sighs and heaves himself to his feet. *But I'll see what I can do.*

Kaladin crosses to Syl and kneels. *How are you doing?* *He's dead. My father is dead. And I'm not sure if I ever really knew him.* Lightning and clouds fill her eyes; she wears something different — a regal gown, fit for a queen. *I can't protect the spren, Kaladin. We are now part of him. He will Unmake us.* *I think the Wind has prepared a solution for that. Haven't you?* *I'm sorry,* she says. *I should not ask. But I do.* Syl hesitates, then sees it. *The last remnants of Honor lie here, in the hands of a broken circle of broken men and women. Damnation. I see.* Kaladin faces the Wind. *Will the spren really die if this is not done?* *Yes. Dalinar Kholin is dead. Cultivation has fled. Retribution will absorb all the power and forge new Unmade from it.* *What do you need me to do?* Syl takes his arm with tears on her cheeks — actual tears. How? *Are you sure, Kaladin? You know what it will mean? We cannot ask this of you.* *But I can offer.* *You spent all this time learning that you can't sacrifice yourself for everyone else. You can't do this.* *Pardon,* he says gently, *but that is not what I learned, Syl. I learned I don't have to make that sacrifice. I have made peace with that. It doesn't mean I shouldn't try to do what I can. You spren have given your entire lives to your Radiants. I can repay that now.*

*Stormblessed?* Nale says, gingerly lowering Szeth. *You don't know what you're saying. Even if Ishar's plan works it could be centuries until we Return. Everyone you know and love will be dead. It should be him. Szeth has no Connections left. He has been prepared for this.* Kaladin crosses the springy ground, kneels, rests his fingers on Szeth's wounded shoulder. *No. He cannot bear this. He chose peace, not war. Heralds must fight, and he needs to heal. I cannot protect everyone. But I can protect him.* *Child,* Ishar says, *you really think you can replace Jezrien, our king?* Kaladin sheathes Nightblood back on Szeth, digs into his pack, and pulls out the deep blue cloak with the tower and the crown emblazoned on the back. *To think that you have lived millennia and you haven't learned a simple truth. Nobility has nothing to do with blood, Ishar. But it has everything to do with heart.*

He walks toward the ring through ghostly versions of himself — Kal the boy first holding a quarterstaff, Squadleader Kaladin on the day he killed Helaran and saved Amaram, the wretch on the lip of the Honor Chasm, Kaladin Stormblessed Radiant in the clouds against Szeth, the man who almost gave in to Odium after Teft's death with eyes burning yellow-red. He steps through each. *He was part of me.* The Wind has always been there. If he does not act, Retribution will kill her, and Syl, and all of them. *I accept this journey,* he whispers. The air splits with thunder. In Syl's voice: *These Words are accepted.* *That isn't what we said,* Nale protests. *The important part is not the Words themselves. It is, again, the heart.* He and Syl thrust their hands forward and a white-blue spear of light forms between them; together they ram it into the open slot, and where it settles a tall silvery spear remains — not made from Syl, but created like the Honorblades, from Honor. Ishar places his hand on his sword, Nale on his. Through the bond, Kaladin feels the others — terrified, released from a small portion of their darkness — and feels Ishar offering them something vital: *redemption.* They come. Taln first, then four whose faces he does not know, then Ash, then a nearly transparent Kalak, then a woman with a shaved head and a curious expression. A ring of gloryspren bursts above him; a thousand windspren spin a whirlpool of light. *Thank you,* the Wind says. *Herald.* *Kaladin,* Syl whispers. *Your eyes.* Dark brown, like they used to be. *Welcome, Kaladin Stormblessed,* Ishar says. *Herald of Kings. Herald of the Wind. Herald of —* *Herald,* Kaladin finishes, *of Second Chances.* Nale smiles and nods. *Now what?* *Now,* Ishar says, *I must make you immortal. And then we must leave this world.*